make today great

Month: August 2014

For a person who enjoys mornings and hot chocolate and orange leaves and soup, Southern California with its afternoon glow and Kombucha and sand can be difficult. Not in the way calculus or international trading agreements are difficult, but more in the way picking onions out of a burrito is difficult. And the sun. So much sun. Every day the sun is there, reminding me that I can’t be anything but happy.

Even the sun is pressuring me!

I went from Southern California to a personified sun. The blog horse is running away again. Excuse me while I pull on those reigns. Neigh! Pull!

SoCal is a delight to many, and I get it. What’s not to love? But since moving here, loving SoCal has felt like cheating on Indiana.

Take the kindest, sweetest boy who wouldn’t kiss you on the first date because of he’s embarrassed by his sweaty lips; that’s Indiana. Falling in love with SoCal would be like leaving the boy and running away with People‘s “Sexiest Man Alive,” circa 1989, 1998, or 2005. Neigh! Pull!

Back to my point: it’s just not fair or nice, and it’s so… predictable.

But is it possible to love two places for different reasons? (To be clear, I’m asking this strictly about places. Please don’t run off on your sweet or even semi-aggrivating significant other, even if he does have sweaty lips.)

Like, am I allowed to love California for showing off days like this?

And this?

And this?

May I love it for its ridiculous traffic and unpredictable acts of nature,

while still adoring Indiana for its autumn and small towns and Walmart? (Walmart is different in Indiana. Trust me.)

I think so. I hope so. I long for my Indiana home, but I’m learning to love California. It’s that slow friendship love that sneaks up on you like wet socks. (I only realize my socks are wet when I stop moving.) I think I can love California like Hermione loves Ron.

But I’ll always love Indiana like Hermione loves Dobby. Maybe Dobby didn’t appear to be such a star to anyone until after he died, but Hermione saw the potential there. I’m not saying anything would have happened between them, but… you never know. I feel better about that scenario than Hermione/Harry.

It took me seven seconds to find the “Add New Post” button. Seven seconds! That’s the amount of time it takes to craft a decent tweet.

(This is a lie, of course. What a blessed moment it is when a decent tweet takes only seven seconds.)

Oh, gosh. Two paragraphs in, and I’m already qualifying every word I say. I should have started with “Hello! My name is Hilly, in case you forgot, and I write the saddest Friday night texts.”

I’ve never been a big Friday person. I’ve never been a party person. Even low-key activities aren’t my jam. I mean, they are, but they should be saved for a night when you aren’t walking like a torso connected to two partially-drained Gusher tubes. (That was my attempt at saying “tired” without actually saying it. How’d I do?)

At home, on a Friday night, even though I don’t want to be (and sometimes decline to be) other places, can get a little lonely. It’s not that I feel lonely, but somehow the most Josie Geller of texts are sent from my phone. You’d think I was finishing my fifteenth needlepoint pillow. (Actually, I’m crocheting and organizing my closet, thank you very much.)

Fine! Fine! I’ll show you the evidence. Quiet down, already.

These are five kinds of texts you might get from me on a Friday night: